^^^ I’m just going to start using ad slogans as my blog post titles from now on, regardless of whether or not they make sense with the entry. Kicking off with yesterday’s Snickers’ rip-off, actually. Boo-ya-kuh-shah! Ripped from Sacha Cohen’s Ali G. Though not an ad.
I’ll stop ripping. Here’s some new stuff, I promise. I ripped it off myself. That sounds disgusting.
Recently, people here and there have been asking me if I’ve embraced the whole being a SAHM thing.
Stay at Home Mom. Again, for those beneath-the-earth-dirt dwellers.
I, myself, prefer the term WAHM. Work at Home Mom. And once Carolynn and I get busy, (and we will get busy, GD it) I’ll be a WAGM. Work at Grandma’s Mom.
The WAGM sitch is as follows. I can work upstairs in my parents’ office space while my mom chases the little guy downstairs in the living room area. Quite a fabulous deal if you ask me. Plus there’s a shower stocked with my favorite shampoos, conditioners and body fixers next-door to my office, and an elliptical, treadmill, Bowflex and stationary bike in the refinished basement. And the refrigerator is also packed with my top ten most noshed. Coconut water, Kefir, turkey sammich fixin’s, rice pudding and the like. It’s basically my dream apartment complex – complete with grocery service, laundry and built-in daycare. I feel like Oprah. Tim better be on his best behavior or: We. Ain’t. Comin’. Home. That goes for you, too, Moey. Stop studying my footstep pattern in the snowy front yard and filling the boot indentations with your elephant-sized droppings. I’ve managed to avoid stepping into it so far this winter but I know how determined you are to win this one, you stubborn beast, you. Ever since I brought Kellan into this house, the creepy smirk on that wrinkled dog face of yours tells me I’ve got it coming to me when I least expect it. I already sleep with one eye open – but that’s because of your snoring between Tim and me and your middle-of-the-night-lick-itch-and-scratch fests.
Gargantuan digression. My apologies. That was the Grand Canyon of story-telling digressions.
*Picking up my story piece by piece and setting each word back into the appropriate line in the college ruled paper where it began.*
People ask me how my SAHM gig is going. Ah yes.
The conversation generally plays out like this:
Friend: Hey Nell, so how’s being home with Kellan all the time going?? Are you loving it?
Me: I AM LOVING IT SO BACK OFF MY SHIT.
*shot gun fired; no one was hurt, the firing was just for effect; plus my aim is horrible (not that I’ve ever shot, or held, for that matter, a gun, but judging from how I throw a dart/football/a pair of socks down the stairs to my hubby, my line of vision, the one responsible for aim, is effed, to put it eloquently.)
No, no. It’s not a hostile conversation. I might have to act this out next time someone asks, though, because I think it would completely throw them off. They thought they were just being nice and polite and asking a simple question, playing like the answer means something to them. Ha. Humans are funny. So much of our lives is for show, when you think about it. Anyway, I’ll be sure to record it if I do. I’ll let you watch the beautiful cinematography unfold.
It is true, however, that I may be a little defensive, and perhaps overly suspicious that whomever is asking is somehow thinking less of me as I’m not contributing to society economically. You caught me. I’m not the do-it-all, Super Woman, full-time-worker-bee, full-time-mama-bee anymore. I’m ok with that, but I still get a little self-conscious. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to self-righteous as soon as Two Brunettes Design Co. kicks off. (Next week? Stay tuned. And tell your friends! The ones who own small businesses, especially!)
Sometimes, I just get the feeling (paranoia…the voices are whispering again…they won’t leave me alooone…they’re calling me…Dell, Delllll) that people think I’m sitting around in yoga pants all day.
Can you imagine that?
Well let me put a stop to that right now. How utterly insulting.
I’m wearing a pair of jeans with a huge hole in the crotch, ok? And I’ve been wearing the same pair for five days straight now.
Yoga pants. WOW. The nerve.